


In Extremis, Bello

by kelex



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mentions of off-screen rape, Off-screen torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 05:46:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20059015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelex/pseuds/kelex
Summary: When Crowley is killed by Hell, Aziraphale loses control of himself and gives himself over to his rage and his pain.





	In Extremis, Bello

**Author's Note:**

> Corvi was instrumental in this fic sounding as good as it does. They're a Godsend.

Thursday was shaping up to be a quite fine day, all things considered. Aziraphale was tucking into a light luncheon of egg and liver sandwiches, split pea soup, a small assortment of cheese and fruits, and for dessert, a box of chocolate eclairs from the small family bakery down the block. They’d been there for… oh, goodness, six generations? Seven? And every “generation” of Fell bookkeepers had been faithful customers. 

He’d received a new acquisition just this morning, a copy of  _ A Picturesque Tour Through the Isle of Wight, _ with the uncolored plate, a companion to his copy with the colored plate, both over-priced at £5000 so nobody would buy either book. So this little luncheon was his personal celebration of the new acquisition.

He did notice the re-binding of the book, which was not a surprise on his line of work. He did not bother to unwrap the binding, but in retrospect, he might have wished that he had. Under the new-old binding, masked sigils glowed brightly as he touched the book, locking into Aziraphale’s Celestial essence, and lying in wait for a matching demonic signature. 

* * *

Crowley banged sharply on the bookshop’s front door. “Angel! Might want to get out here, soon as you can!” he shouted, and turned back to the Bentley, leaning against the open passenger door. 

“Oh, really, must you always make such a commotion?” But Aziraphale was already out of the door and locking it behind him even as he fussed. “What’s going on?”

“Come on. That raw fish place you like’s on fire.” Crowley folded himself into the driver’s seat. “Already did a little bit of work to make sure nobody got hurt, but you might want to see if you can do anything else.” 

“Oh, Lord.” Aziraphale appeared in the driver’s seat, and he braced himself on the dashboard. “Well?”

Crowley didn’t grin, but behind his sunglasses, his eyes lit up. “As you wish.” He put the pedal to the floor, and the Bentley tore off in a squeal of burnt tyres and smoke. 

The block was mostly cordoned off, and so the Bentley whipped into a narrow streetside space that should’ve been a few meters too small, and yet it fit. Crowley climbed out first, and Aziraphale leaned against the Bentley’s roof in dismay. 

“The Yamamoto family have worked at this restaurant for twenty years,” he said quietly. “Dai was about to retire, and Takahashi was taking over. Their whole lives were in this place.”

Crowley jutted his chin out. “They’re over there, if you’d like to say hi. Made sure they got out myself. Can’t do much about saving the building, but the people are all right.” 

In another situation, Aziraphale might have teased Crowley about having gone soft, about how it was nice of him to do this, but he didn’t. The Yamamotos were friends, or at least, close enough acquaintances that Aziraphale considered them friends, and their pain was his pain too. “Thank you, Crowley.” 

“Go on, get over there. Do your…” his hand waved vaguely. “Happy thing.” 

The hand wave wasn’t at all vague. The flames that had been encroaching towards the other shops on the block stopped their advance and burned steadily backwards, staying within the confines of the already-destroyed building. 

Aziraphale failed to notice as he hurried through the crowd. “Yamamoto Dai-san!” he shouted. “ _ Gomennasai, Dai-san.” _

_ “Arigato, Aziraphale-san.” _ Dai Yamamoto had his arms around his wife and his eldest son. “We survive. I am thankful for that.” 

Aziraphale put his hand on Dai’s arm. “If there’s anything at all I can do, please let me know. Do you need a place to stay tonight? I can book you rooms--”

“We thank you, but our home is not far. All that burned can be rebuilt, replaced. Human lives, not so. They are important, but we will not give up.” Dai shook Aziraphale’s hand warmly. “It means the world to us that you would come here.” 

“I know a good many of your regular customers. We’ll be waiting eagerly for you to reopen.” He was already planning to have a collections tin on his counter or something to help the family out. “Please don’t hesitate to call on me.” He fumbled a card out of his pocket, and thrust it forward at the small family group. 

The son took the card, and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “We will let you know, if there is anything,” he reassured. 

“Hey!” One of the firemen caught sight of Aziraphale behind the barricades. “Oi, you, how’d you get behind there! Leave those people alone, get back behind the line!” 

“Oops, I’m sorry, I’m going to have to hurry now.” He patted the son on the arm, and then ducked out, far more quickly than he should have been able to go. He wiggled his finger a little, and the son’s pocket bulged unnoticed. When he’d check his pocket later on, he’d miraculously discover there’d been several hundred-pound notes wrapped around the business card, that he didn’t remember when he’d taken it. But he’d write it off to the stress of the situation and turn the money over to his parents, from  _ that nice Mr. Aziraphale. _

Crowley was leaning against the side of the Bentley, waiting for the angel. While he’d been waiting, he’d prevented one hose from exploding--a fault in the metal flanges that fastened to the hydrant had been building up pressure, and he’d repaired the fault and kept the water flowing. 

The flames were mostly out now, the diners in the shop had been checked out at the scene and only one, an older man who had had a minor heart attack, had needed transportation to the hospital. The rest had been treated on-site for minor scrapes and abrasions, and Crowley was quite proud of that. 

The man with the heart condition would later find whatever costs he’d incurred paid for by a benefactor. Which benefactor would never be clarified. 

“Let’s go home, angel.”

“Yes, please.” Aziraphale climbed into the Bentley and rested his head in hands for a few long moments. “Slowly, this time.” Slowly, because there was nothing they could do this time. 

“Sure.” The Bentley slipped out of its parking space and merged easily into traffic. He kept his word and did not speed, and in due course, they arrived back at the bookshop. Then he locked the door, to keep Aziraphale from getting out. “Look, if you want, you can come back to my flat. We’ll drink, we’ll watch telly, and for a few hours, forget about all this.” 

“No, thank you,” Aziraphale declined gently. “I know it isn’t personal, but I rather feel like something important was lost tonight. It’s silly, isn’t it, to get sad over a building?”

“Well, sure, but it’s not just the building, is it? It’s the people in the building and the things that happened there that you get attached to. Every time you walk in, it’s like it’s happening all over again.”

“Yes, exactly!” Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley in surprise. “That’s precisely it. It’s like… like a warm hug that wraps around you every time.” 

“Right.” Crowley didn’t mention that was precisely the feeling he got every time he sauntered into the bookshop. “D’you want some company or not?”

“Of course you’re always welcome, Crowley.” 

But Crowley knew his angel, maybe better than the angel knew himself. “But you’d really rather be alone right now. I’ll stop round tomorrow and see how you’re feeling.” 

“That’s a dear fellow.” The Bentley’s doors unlocked, and Aziraphale climbed out and crossed the road. Crowley didn’t pull away until he’d seen the doors close safely behind the angel, and then he peeled out like a bat out of hell.

* * *

The following Monday was a fairly normal day. The Yamamoto family had stopped by to thank Aziraphale for his gift, and to try and return it. But the angel wouldn’t accept, and so had entertained the family for lunch and sent them on their way. 

Now, though, he was waiting for Crowley to stop by, because the demon had promised to bring dessert for lunch this time, and he was impatiently checking his pocket watch for the third time when he heard it. The fire brigade siren, extremely close, and he bolted out of the shop. Smoke came from a bit down the high street, and he stopped short. 

High Street Patisserie, as it was known in its current incarnation, was on fire. 

Aziraphale panicked a bit; not for his shop, because it had a great deal of his own personal protections, but because it was beginning to  _ seem _ personal. Of course, it could be random, two of his favorite spots burning within a week of each other. He drew close to the blaze, looking round to see if Crowley had arrived yet, but the big black car was nowhere to be seen. 

It whipped around the corner in the next second, screeching to a halt as the fire brigade trucks screamed past it. The Bentley made a turn in the street, not exactly caring the car was actually too large to do it, and spun out of sight. Aziraphale turned to see the car pull into its usual spot in front of the shop, and hurried over to him. “Crowley!”

“What the hell, angel?” He got out of the car at met Aziraphale halfway, standing in the middle of the road. “I got caught up in traffic on the way in, and when I got there, the bloody place was exploding!” He threw his hands outwards to encompass the burning bakery. “What is going on?”

“I don’t know, but we’d better go and find out.” Aziraphale took Crowley by the arm, and hurried him over to the bakery, where the fire hoses were already rolling out to spray the building with water. “Excuse me, but I own the shop across the way, and I was wondering--”

“Don’t worry, it’s going to be under control,” the fireman answered hastily. “Your property isn’t going to be in any danger.”

“Oh, I don’t care about that, you idiot, I’m worried about the family that owns this place!” he burst out angrily. 

“Over there,” he pointed distracted.

The owner of the bakery was sitting in the back of the ambulance. The entire left side of his face and body was burnt, and the attendants were threading an IV into the man’s right arm. 

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale whispered, and headed towards the stretcher.

“Oh no you don’t,” Crowley hissed, hauling him back. “Do you want to get noticed?”

“That man is  _ suffering, _ ” Aziraphale whispered back, pulling at Crowley’s grip like a dog pulling the leash. “And I can  _ help. _ ”

“You can get caught doing big miracles and hauled right back up to Heaven, and this time, I don’t think a body swap is going to be enough to save you,” Crowley hissed again, sibilance dotting his speech as he drew out the s-sounds in his anger. 

“Healing is what we are supposed to do,” came the rejoinder, and Aziraphale was fighting hard to keep his voice low. “You and I both know that.”

“Yes, we do, and we also both know that what Heaven is supposed to be and what it actually is,” was Crowley’s response. “And what it actually is, is a festering pustule of hate and demand for obedience wrapped up in a big shiny pretty package of steel and glass windows.”

“But I  _ know _ them!” Aziraphale shouted.

Crowley dragged him into the nearest sheltered doorway, and did his best to cloak them from the people standing around. To anyone outside, it looked like they’d just entered in the shop. “I don’t care, I know  _ you _ and I don’t want to lose you because you’ve done something…. You-ish.”

“Crowley,  _ this feels personal. _ ” He admitted it. “It feels like this is an attack on me. My favorite restaurant, with owners I’m friendly towards, my favorite bakery the same.” 

“I know, I know, but it could just be a coincidence,” Crowley reminded, and privately, he didn’t think it was a coincidence. But he would do a bit of poking around on his own, while Aziraphale calmed down. “We don’t even know what happened yet.”

“I don’t care, I want to know what’s going on, and I want to protect the humans that I care about. There’s no excuse for them to be caught up in this.”

“If anything is going on,” Crowley repeated. “Look, if you feel like you have to do something, here.” He held the keys to the Bentley out. “Take the car, don’t worry, it’ll take care of you. Take the car, and go around to anywhere you want to protect and put your protection on it and the people inside it.” 

Aziraphale took the keys, but pocketed them instead of getting in the car. “You first.”

Crowley scoffed. “I don’t  _ have _ anyone to protect!”

Aziraphale put his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, closing his eyes and praying softly. A soft white light bathed both their figures, leaking through Crowley’s cloaking. Crowley twisted and writhed a bit uncomfortably in the light, but it died off quickly. “It won’t stop anything happening, but it will alert me. And if it is personal, well. Sooner or later, they’re going to come after you. I will be there to put a stop to it.” 

Crowley couldn’t help feeling like he’d been Lojacked by a particularly protective parent. “I can take care of myself, angel.”

“Obviously, but now you’ll be safe. Safer, any way.” He took the keys and gave them back to Crowley. “It’s your car, darling. Look, stay here, will you? Look after them for me?” 

“Course.” He’d intended to anyway; it’d give him proper cover for his snooping about. “Let me know when you’re back at the shop, right?” 

“Yes, I’ve got your mobile number. I’ll ring you when I’m done.” Aziraphale took in the destruction one last time, and then turned his back on it. A flash of blue light, the instantaneous flutter of wings, and he disappeared on the spot. 

The white light still lingered inside of Crowley’s body, and it felt like a warm glowing ember somewhere deep in his soul. Which, he supposed, proved that he still had one.

* * *

“Gas main,” Crowley reported, throwing himself down on the sofa. He still smelt of soot and smoke, but he honestly didn’t notice any longer. “Supposedly the ovens were gas, one of the jets malfunctioned. Blew the place to Hell and back. Checked on the owner, him and the delivery boy were the only ones there, and they’ll both be all right. Delivery boy just got his arm broken, owner’s a little worse off than that. They’re thinking skin grafts in a couple of places ought to do him up proper.”

“Whatever the NHS doesn’t--”

Crowley waved it away. “Already taken care of.” Of course, he didn’t comment on the fact that it had been taken care of by Crowley’s neatly rearranging the hospital’s books, so that no charges would ever show up for any kind of treatment at all. He figured details would not be helpful at this point. 

“The gas jets, that’s true as far as it goes. When High Street bought out the old owners, they renovated. Changed practically everything to gas. I think the lights are probably the only thing left that were electric.” 

Crowley swallowed his drink in a single gulp. “That checks with what I was told. Well, what I found out. Well… what I scavenged when I stole the chief inspector’s book.” He lifted his hip and pulled the long notebook out of his back pocket, then tossed it to the angel.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” Aziraphale caught the notebook against his chest, fumbling it a little even as he flipped it open. “These are investigative notes!”

Crowley pointed with his glass, even as he filled it up. “Straight from the horse’s mouth, that is. Why is it from the horse’s mouth? What do horses even have to do with anything? Anyway, yes, those are his notes, and he’ll find them in his auto in the morning. Fell out of his jacket, most like.” 

Aziraphale kept flipping pages. “Oh, he has notes on Dai-san’s!”

“Yup.” Which had been why he’d nicked it in the first place. “Says both were accidentals, a faulty table grill at the sushi place, and the gas jets at the bakery, but he thinks something’s off. Not arson, and that will help with the insurance racket, but he’s suspicious.”

Aziraphale tossed the notebook down on the table. “The man’s an idiot. He’s thinking mafia, the buffoon.”

“As opposed to the forces of Heaven and Hell?” Off Aziraphale’s startled look, he scoffed. “Come on, you were thinking it earlier, I’m just drunk enough to say it.” 

“What did you find, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. “You wouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion if you hadn’t found something.”

“Nothing tangible,” he admitted. “No proof I can whip out and show you, but.” He sat forward on the edge of his seat. “That bastard Hastur has always loved fire. He loves setting fire to things. Now, I can’t feel a bit of demonic presence there, but Hastur’s been discorporated. Burnt to a crisp, actually, in the Bentley.” Whether that had been erased or not, Crowley had never been inclined to check into, until now. “Could be that since none of that other stuff happened, Hastur might not have been discorporated. Didn’t feel anything Heavenly either, but honestly, don’t know that I would these days. Your lot’s rather too close to mine, all things considered.” 

“All things considered, I’d be rather more comfortable if you stayed here for a few days. Just until we get a handle on what’s going on.”

At that, Crowley sobered himself up fast. “Might not be a bad idea at that, angel. Car park’s down the way, I’ll leave the car down there and come right back.”

“I’ll lock up as soon as you’ve left,” Aziraphale agreed. “Come to the back of the shop when you’re done.” 

“Right, will do. Oh, angel… might not be a bad idea to have a bit of holy water lying around. You know. Just in case.”

Aziraphale bit his lip and looked at Crowley’s back as he left. “Might not be at that.”

Tucked away carefully on a high shelf,  _ A Picturesque Tour Through the Isle of Wight  _ sat sandwiched between a travelogue for Prague and a Parisian street atlas circa 1790. It had begun to glow a menacing red the moment Crowley had thrown himself onto the sofa and had not stopped until Crowley had left the bookshop entirely. 

* * *

Friday brought the worst bit of news yet. 

After four days had passed with no other fires and no other suspicious outbursts, Crowley had convinced Aziraphale that leaving the shop for lunch would be all right. Mostly because they were both going a little mad cooped up in the shop, waiting for the attack that did not materialize. Crowley could coil up and nap on a high bookshelf and wait for it to happen, but Aziraphale could not. And so to save both their sanity, Crowley suggested lunch at the Ritz--a sure bet to pull the angel out of his funk. 

So they were sitting at their customary table close to the piano when the front doors of the restaurant were blown off their hinges. A gout of fire speared through the destroyed entrance, scorching everything in its path, including people. 

The maitre-d, two waiters, and the doorman were killed instantly, along with Dr. and Mrs. Radcliffe, who were waiting in line for a table. Three other diners were critically injured, and a score or more were either burned severely or trampled as the restaurant emptied. The hotel above was being evacuated in a more orderly fashion, and Crowley and Aziraphale were cowering behind a table as smaller explosions and columns of fire danced around them. 

“Go out to lunch, you said! Nothing’s going to happen, you said!” Aziraphale shouted at Crowley. 

“Yes, yes, I was wrong, good for you,” Crowley shouted back sarcastically. “Would you like to put your mind to getting out of here?”

“Behind the piano, there’s doors out to the terrace. If we go that way, we should manage to get to a clear area without being discorporated. Once we’re there, it’s a small miracle to jump straight home from there. Then we can come back properly and help.”

“Come back and help, are you mad? This was meant  _ for us, _ idiot.” Crowley was holding his hand over his head, protecting himself and Crowley with an invisible dome that kept most of the burning debris off their heads and clothing. “Go back to the shop and lock it down, you mean.” 

“But there are people  _ dying. _ ”

“Yes, and that’s horrible, but do you want to be one of them? Discorporated, sent back to Heaven without a body? How easy do you think it’ll be to escape this time, hmm?” Crowley dispelled the dome and grabbed the angel by the arm. “Run!”

Aziraphale found himself doing what the demon commanded; running. A burning roof beam collapsed, and he was nearly trapped beneath it before Crowley tackled him. He noticed in the back of his mind that demon’s coat was already on fire, but he paid more attention to the escape route than Crowley’s burning wardrobe. 

A snap of the demon’s fingers shattered the two windows ahead of their approach, and they threw themselves out the empty frames. They landed hard on the ground, and Crowley rolled over, whipping his jacket off and stomping the flames out of it. “That was my favorite!” he complained, picking up the ruined jacket and draping it over his arm. 

“We’ll find you another.” Aziraphale’s clothing was burnt and torn, muddy from the landing in the terraced garden. “Look at this, I’ll never find a replacement for this coat.” He bent down, picking up the winged medallion that had served as his watch fob. “I’ll have to repair this, it will take ages.” 

“Yes, terrible thing, terrible about your coat. Let’s  _ go _ , Aziraphale!” Crowley shouted, halfway to the terrace wall. He scrambled over it, and perched on the top, waiting to give Aziraphale a hand up. 

White wings deposited Aziraphale on the ground on the other side, and Crowley dropped down to join him. “No time for the car, do you think?”

As much as it pained him, “Yes, I agree. Car stays behind. Back to the shop?”

“Back to the shop,” Aziraphale echoed, and both angel and demon miracled themselves away from the burning Ritz.

* * *

Four hours later, they came for the shop. 

Crowley and Aziraphale were locked down inside the shop. Aziraphale’s wings were fully unfurled, his coat had been miracled clean and tucked away for safety. A sword--not the one he had been given by God, but one he’d acquired over the millennia--was in his hand, and his eye was trained on the front door. 

Crowley’s eyes were trained on the back. Black wings had risen far into the air, and his eyes burned a golden yellow. His fingers were tipped with claws, and snake-like fangs descended far past his jaw. In his claws was clutched his old angelic sword, and a vile green venom dripped from the blade. 

There were no thoughts of napping now, no playful flirting banter. Before the Ritz, they could indulge. Afterwards, they were soldiers on the alert. 

In the end, the attack came from above. The glass of the oculus skylight was broken, and a fireball exploded on the carpet. 

Crowley dropped his sword and pushed Aziraphale out of the way. “Infernal flames,” he shouted. There was no time to switch; Crowley simply willed Aziraphale into the back room and the angel vanished. 

Reappeared in the next second, but he was too late. 

Through the broken skylight, demons dropped in like skydivers. They landed on either side of Crowley, disarming him at the cost of one of their hands. Crowley’s snake-head spat the hand out of his mouth, but it was too late. 

A fire hose broke through the front door, and Aziraphale knew what it was before he could even scream “Crowley, no!”

The blast of holy water caught all three demons square on. There was a grotesque scream of three voices tangling together in a sudden instant of torment, and a great hissing as ichor and bile splashed back from the hose spray. Aziraphale was doused by holy water, which extinguished most of the flames, and in the smoke, he could see a charred, bubbling pit of demonic remains.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly, and picked up the demon’s sword. In angelic hands, the green venom turned to holy fire, and in a heartbeat, he shed the human guise he’d worn for six thousand years. 

A golden crown sat upon his head, and in the hand not holding the flaming sword, a golden sceptre appeared. His wings grew and multiplied until there were three sets, each one reaching higher than the last. His clothing fell alway to be replaced by silver armor with bronze epaulets, and a shimmering chest plate that shone resplendent in the dying fires of the bookshop’s remains. 

The bookshop shattered around Aziraphale’s unencumbered form. To the masses watching, it would simply look as if the shop had exploded, but to the other Heavenly bodies lurking around the shop, they saw a Colossus rise out of the broken building to tower over the London skyline. 

Three archangels rose to greet him; Gabriel, Uriel, Sandalphon. Michael was nowhere to be seen, although Aziraphale felt the Archangel’s presence waning even as he sought it. Casting aside the diadem, Aziraphale raised his flaming sword and pointed it at Gabriel. “Who among you is the first?”

Gabriel shed his earthly form as well, swelling until he stood toe to toe and face to face with Aziraphale. “I am Gabriel. I am the first of Four, and you are a traitor to Heaven!” 

A loud lion’s roar tore out of Aziraphale’s throat, and there was enough of the earthly Aziraphale left inside him that they were forced from the face of the Earth. Aziraphale had meant to land them all on the Celestial plane, but the portals were all shut against him; he tried all the portals in existence in a microsecond, and he found that he was locked out of Heaven. 

So that had been Michael’s disappearing act. He had left the other Archangels to die in his place so that he could close Heaven to Aziraphale’s wrath. 

With Heaven closed, Aziraphale and the other angels landed on the empty plains of Purgatory. Nothingness stretched in every direction, only hard-packed dirt and a deep pit far in the horizon. Here, all angels shed their earthly guises, and Aziraphale faced the three angels who wanted him dead. 

All three angels were armed with spears of gold, swords of Celestial silver, and shields of Celestial Bronze. Archangels faced off against the Principality, and the clashing of their weapons rolled through the empty wastes like thunder. 

Gabriel attacked first. His sword gleamed in the dull light of Purgatory. His blade flew in towards Aziraphale like lightning, aiming for the other angel’s sword arm. He used his sceptre to block it. The sword bounced hard and nearly flew out of Gabriel’s grip--and would have, if not for Aziraphale’s sudden backwards stumble. Aziraphale barely had time to bring his flaming sword up to parry the inevitable return blow.

It was Sandalphon’s spear, soaring through the stale air. It nicked Aziraphale’s second layer of wings, and the wounded angel let out another roar. Purgatory shook underfoot. Gabriel scrambled upright and scurried backwards to buy an instant to re-engage. Aziraphale refused to give it to him. Dropping the sceptre, he swept the discarded spear from the dirt, and flung it with one fluid motion.

It soared true and skewered Gabriel from behind and pinning him facedown in the dirt. A desperate fury animated Aziraphale as he moved towards Gabriel, intending to finish the job up close and personally. His own labored breathing drowned out the choking coughs and gasps from the speared angel. 

Sandalphon threw himself between Aziraphale and the barely-alive Gabriel. The Principality did not hesitate. The flaming sword pierced Sandalphon’s heart and burned him from the inside outwards. Uriel had their blade drawn, forcing Aziraphale back several steps. 

The spear out of his hands, Aziraphale lifted his sceptre once again, pointing it as a final decree of judgement against Uriel. Uriel exchanged sword for spear, twirling the weapon like a staff. Aziraphale rushed forward. Every stab and thrust was parried by the spinning shaft of Uriel’s spear. His eyes glowed a brilliant white, and the flame of his sword strengthened as he crashed it down into the handle of the spear, shattering it. Uriel let the pieces drop, and Aziraphale could see the fear clearly enter Uriel’s eyes. It drove his next strike to fall like a blacksmith’s hammer. Aziraphale drew back his blade again, and when it came down hard, Uriel caught it between their palms. The blade sliced through sizzling flesh, their divine ichor flowing like blood. 

Uriel stumbled back, arms pinwheeling from the unexpected strength of the blow. They shoved Aziraphale’s sword down, their palms slick with ichor. Still, they picked up the sword with both hands, a small tremor causing the blade to tremble. The fear was far more evident now, but it didn’t stop them fighting. Uriel swung the sword and slipped beneath Aziraphale’s armor. HE fell back, his own divine blood dripping down his leg. In his rage, Aziraphale refused to acknowledge the wound and bared his teeth as he bore down on the handle of the sword.

Charging ahead, sword held in front of him as if it were a lance, the blade pierced Uriel as it had Sandalphon before them. The angel’s dying scream as he was consumed by flames sounded to Aziraphale’s raging heart like Crowley’s, and a malicious pleasure skated up his spine. It felt rather like divine retribution.

The two burnt corpses lay on either side of Gabriel, still skewered and trying to drag himself away from the battle. His fingers dug into the colorless ground and his broken body left a trail of blood in his wake. 

His mouth was crimson with blood, his armor torn from the spear ripping through it. His hands gripped the shaft of the spear, and with a ragged cry deep from his soul, Gabriel ripped the spear out of his own body. With a trembling and unsure hand, he summoned his last reservoirs of strength to heave it at Aziraphale. 

It left a bloody smear in the air, but found its mark. Aziraphale felt the blow this time, as the spear penetrated his shoulder. But this, as all efforts before, did not stop him. He cared for nothing now save destruction. The flames of his sword were flickering out as it was drowned in Celestial blood, but he wasn’t deterred. Aziraphale dug his foot into Gabriel’s bloodied side and shoved him onto his back. He stood over the archangel, one foot on his chest, trapping him as he leaned into it. 

This close in, Aziraphale realized Gabriel was praying. Praying to Her, for help, for salvation. 

His own blood dripped to mingle with Gabriel’s. “Shut your stupid mouth and die already,” he spat furiously. His heart pounded and he lifted his sword for the final blow. He drove the blade into Gabriel’s skull and between his eyes. The power of the Archangel’s death threw him back several feet, and a column of fire broke forth from Gabriel, leaving nothing but an empty shell behind. 

Aziraphale found himself standing alone on the plane of Purgatory, surrounded by the bodies of those he once trusted with his life. The spike of malicious victory had long since faded, and only frustration and fury remained. Turning his face to the sky, he opened his throat and screamed. The land beneath him shuddered, and three sets of wings beat in sync to lift the Principality off the ground and send him shooting skyward. 

The portals were still closed, so he beat at the invisible gateways with his fists. When that did not work, his wings created great downdrafts to keep him aloft, flaming sword striking at the very fabric of Purgatory, over and over and over again. 

* * *

Meterologists all over the world were seeking out answers. Great rolling peals and claps of thunder were crashing all over the world, no matter the climate. In good weather and bad, day or night, the peals of thunder came with the regularity of clockwork.

With the regularity of Aziraphale’s sword pounding the fabric of the universe.

At Jasmine Cottage, Anathema Device was sitting at the kitchen table. She had been on edge for days now, but she could not pinpoint the cause. What she did know was that something terrible was occurring somewhere; the cosmological energy that flowed all around was stirred up fiercely. 

From her notecard file, she withdrew a business card that had once been tucked inside the front cover of The Book.  _ A. Z. Fell & Company, Rare and Antiquarian Books _ , with a Soho address and a phone number at the bottom. Dialing the number, she drummed on the corner of the table with the card. 

The phone rang for ten, twenty, thirty times. No answerphone picked up, no voicemail answered, and finally Anathema made a decision. She took her jacket out of the closet, and shook Newt awake. “Come on, we need to go.”

“Go? Where are we going?” Newt dragged his hands through his hair, then fetched his glasses from the bedside table. He saw Anathema dressed for travel, and hurried to pull on his pants and trousers.

“London,” she answered shortly. “I think there’s trouble.” 

* * *

The wall-sized screen snapped off with a whine, fading from a full-colored image to a single bright pixel that slowly faded. “That was thrilling. Didn’t think that soft little angel had it in him.” A pause. “Should we be worried?” 

“Yeah, I think we probably should be.” The buzzing of flies was the only sound in the office. 

“Too late to do anything about it, though.”

“Yeah.” More buzzing as the flies grew more agitated. “I think we’re going to have to get  _ him _ involved.” 

“Not liking that.”

“Me neither, but I don’t want to be killed.”

“Might be anyway, bringing news like this.” 

A tired sigh. “Yeah. Best just let things happen, right?”

“Right.”

* * *

Aziraphale’s arm began to tire, then to ache, then to burn. He did not stop; he could not stop. Four days he spent bashing through the walls of Purgatory and his wings did not stop beating. Four days he stayed aloft and swung his sword like a battering ram. Four days his broken heart screamed deafeningly, and over it, he could not hear the sound of his own violence.

After two days, a miniscule crack appeared, and after three, there was enough of an opening that Aziraphale could see the stars of the Heavenly Firmament. He tried to force his being through the spaces between the stars, tried to squeeze through the tiny cracks between atoms and electrons to find a way into Heaven, but still it was sealed against him. 

The fourth day, his flaming sword had hewn a hole large enough for his head and his hand to fit through, and with a great scream, Aziraphale tore the fabric of Purgatory asunder. He floated in the ruins above it, hovering in between Purgatory and Heaven, and pushed with what strength he had left. 

Finally, the portal between Purgatory and Heaven opened to him, and Aziraphale spilled out onto the Heavenly Plane. 

Michael stood before him. Resplendent in battle armor, a red cape flowing over his shoulder like blood. The Spear of Heaven glinted brightly in his hands. 

“I have thrown down my brothers before you, Aziraphale. I have brought them to their ruin, and I will throw you down to join them!” Michael bellowed. 

Filled with renewed rage, Aziraphale raised his flaming sword as Michael charged. It appeared to him to happen in slow motion; the Spear of Heaven thrust with certainty towards its mark, clanging with the sound of thunder against Aziraphale’s breastplate.

The handle snapped in Michael’s grip, and the spearhead fell to the ground unheeded by Aziraphale. 

He raised his sword high, and brought it down in a heartbeat. Michael’s arm lifted to deflect, and the fiery sword cut through the armored limb like butter. Blood sprayed Aziraphale’s face and armor. 

Angels were born to be bathed in blood. 

Rage, anger, grief, and the pain of denied love poured through Aziraphale and it burned like acid, destroying what might have been left of his compassion, his kindness, his hope. It burned out everything that stood against the ruin of Heaven of Hell alike. The flames from his sword shone bright even in the purifying white of the Celestial plane. His arm did not falter; the sceptre of his rule acted as a shield, deflecting the blows of the other angels as he battled Michael.

Killed Michael.

He plunged the fiery sword through the golden breastplate covering the angel’s chest. Aziraphale realized he was screaming wordlessly as he tore the sword out and struck Michael’s head from his shoulders.

A heady shock swept over Aziraphale as he watched Michael’s head roll across the battlefield. He fought for a deep breath but could not draw it in until he closed his eyes. For the briefest of moments, he contemplated what Heaven’s punishment would be. Decided in the next instant that he did not care, and opened his eyes again to feast on the sight of the slain archangel. 

In the distance the gates of Heaven creaked, and a flood of lesser angels spilled forth to line the Celestial Plane. The meekest among them bore Michael’s headless form on their shoulders and carried him back inside, while the strongest stayed to surround the battlefield with flaming swords and Celestial silver shields. 

The rage inside of Aziraphale spilled out in bolts of lightning, laying waste to the Celestial Plane and the gathered angelic host. Some burned where they stood, others ran and were caught as the blasts chased them. Through the soles of their feet it entered their bodies. Fire pulsated under their skin, blistering the flesh in the sprawling patterns of their veins as it boiled them alive. Tongues protruded, purple and swollen as bodies were dried out, and flame burned through the eye sockets of the angels, turning their faces into terrifying jack-o-lanterns. His throat was hoarse, and his torn heart raged forth a column of fire that consumed the remains of the heavenly host. 

_ THAT IS ENOUGH, AZIRAPHALE. _ The force of the words blasted the Principality roughly off his feet, a cloud of dust blowing up as he landed several feet away.

“It is never enough!” Aziraphale surged back to his feet, dragging his sword behind him. “You let them do this! I will not rest, I will not stop! It will  _ never _ be enough!” he raged defiantly. The surviving angels of the host surged backwards as they heard the Divine Voice shouting at Aziraphale.

_ YOU WILL. _

Aziraphale felt punched in the chest, and he fell. Down out of the Celestial plane, down past the human plane, and he landed hard on the red packed-earth of the Infernal plane. Sulphur pools burbled and spat noxious fumes, and his wings were splashed with brimstone. He shook them clear, gripped his sword, and strode through the plane, following the pools to their source, the Gates of Hell. 

A demon with a frog on his head was waiting for him, and Crowley’s voice echoed in his ears.  _ Hastur, Duke of Hell. Unpleasant bastard, frog on his head. Can’t miss him. Doesn’t like me too much since I torched Ligur, but it can’t be helped. _ “Hello, Hastur.”

“You can’t come in here, angel.” Hastur was bite-sized, not even the size of Aziraphale’s sandal, but he was fighting hard not to shake in front of the angel. 

“Can’t I?” Aziraphale spoke words of Enochian, and the skies over Hell clouded up and rain began to patter. 

Hastur breathed a sigh of relief until the raindrops of holy water touched him, and he started to scream. 

Hell screamed; it seemed like every demon in hell was wailing, melting out bit by bit.

The rain fell harder; Hastur was soaking in it now, and his screams reached a fever pitch. The now-familiar sight and scent of demonic remains spewed out of Hell’s gates like a river, and Aziraphale took a step back to keep out of it. 

The gates swung open on corroded hinges, and the Principality stepped almost daintily past what used to be demons as he entered the gates of Hell. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

The holy fire on the sword sprang back to life with a thought, and he brandished it in front of him. “Who was the one?”

There was no answer, and Aziraphale was patient. He stood like a statue, dripping holy water like sweat and waiting. 

There was a rumble in the distance, something like the quake that had rocked the Lower Tadfield Air Force Base, but not as strong. There were three tremors, with long pauses between them that almost sounded like conversation. The last quake was a strong one, and from one of the gray towers, a small, bug-like form approached and buzzed up to him like a fly. “Azzzzzzzziraphale, Prinzzzzzzzipality of the Gate, pleazzzzzzze diminish and enter, under the protection of Zzzzzzatan.” 

Aziraphale recognized the buzzing tones of Beelzebub, Lord of Flies and Commandant of Hell. “No, I don’t think I shall.” He caught the buzzing demon in his hand and brought it up to his face. “Was it you, little buzzing thing? Shall you be the first among you to die?” He squeezed Beelzebub tightly between his fingers, rejoicing in the squeals and buzzing. 

“He’zzzzzzz not dead!” Beelzebub shrieked out, and nearly fell to the hard-packed dirt when Aziraphale stopped squeezing. Their wings caught them up at the last moment, and they climbed back to Aziraphale’s level. “Crowley’zzzzzz not dead!”

Three words stunned Aziraphale to his core. “You are lying to me, little demon,” the Principality answered. “And you shall pay for it.”

“For once, he’s actually not. All this for me?” 

Aziraphale diminished instantly, no longer able to hold his massive form. Crowley was there, off to the side and propped up between two demons because he could barely stand. His knees buckled even as he tried to shove off the demons, and he hit the ground hard. 

His skin was a map of scarring and fresh wounds, and one of his eyes was still growing back. The snake tattoo on his face had been obviously peeled off, to prevent his shapeshifting, but it was growing back regardless. His hair had been shaved, and there was an odd thickness to the way he spoke that meant something was wrong with his tongue. But it was, without a doubt, at least physically Crowley. 

The demons reached out to grab Crowley’s arms, but Aziraphale threw them backwards. He crossed over to Crowley in a single stride, and fell to his knees beside him. “How in the world… is that really you, Crowley? Prove it to me.”

Even though he was obviously in pain, Crowley’s mouth twisted into a grin. “I saved your books in that church. You saved us, and I saved your books.”

Aziraphale hugged the demon to his chest then. “It really is you.” 

“Of course it is. Didn’t give up on me, did you?” He let his head lean against Aziraphale’s shoulder, because he was exhausted. 

Aziraphale’s glare grew steely, and he turned it back onto Beelzebub. “Explain yourself.”

The surrounding demons slunk back several steps as Aziraphale demanded an explanation from Beelzebub. “We were acting on intelligenzzzze from Heaven,” they started cautiously. “Gabriel zzzzzzugezzzzted that if Crowley were out of the way, they could zzzzecure you on their own. Zzzzo we planned to take Crowley out from under your nozzzze zzzo you would think he was dead. One of our demonzzzzz took Crowley’zzzz place in the bookzzzzzhop and the other brought him here. Then Heaven wazzzzz zzzzzupposed to handle you.”

“I think they rather over-reached themselves on that,” Aziraphale retorted, not at all kindly. “Please explain why you attacked my friends and killed people that I cared about.” 

“Becauzzzze Crowley hazzzzz no weaknezzzz but you,” Beelzebub continued gingerly. “Gabriel counzzzeled uzzz to attack you, and put Crowley on edge. You would be defenzzzzzive, eazzzy to deceive with your attention on the humanzzzzz. Then onzzzze we had him, you would be eazzzzy pickingzzzz for Gabriel.” 

Aziraphale didn’t have to look down to feel Crowley tense up at the exposure of his secret. “It seems that Heaven has a habit of underestimating me.” He wrapped his arm around Crowley’s shoulders and pulled him to his feet. “I think we shall be leaving now, and if you know what is good for you, you will  _ not _ bother Crowley or myself ever again. Heaven’s already gotten that message, and I hope that you have been sufficiently warned as well.” He waited for acknowledgement.

Beelzebub tilted their head at once. “Yezzzz. Off-limitzzzz.” 

“Quite.” Aziraphale looked upwards, and his wings sprung out. Only the one set, this time, and they lifted him and Crowley off the ground and off the Infernal Plane. 

* * *

Aziraphale touched down in the car park beside Crowley’s Bentley. He held Crowley up gently, helping ease the demon into the back seat. “Won’t be long now, you’ll be back at the flat and we’ll see about fixing you up.”

“Don’t you bleed on my seat, angel,” Crowley warned, reaching between the seats and touching the gaping stab wound in Aziraphale’s side. 

As Crowley touched it, Aziraphale felt dizzy, as if his acknowledgement of the wound gave it an effect on his well-being. He gasped, softly, as it started to sluggishly knit closed. “Crowley, stop it!”

Stubbornly, Crowley continued draining his strength into healing Aziraphale. “Don’t want you to leak all out until you get back to your body,” he pointed out. “Then you can worry about me.”

“I”m going to worry about you first,” he retorted. His body was something he hadn’t given thought to. He’d shed it without thought when he’d ascended into the true shape of the Principality, and he hadn’t considered it again. “My body is probably still somewhere in the wreckage of the shop.”

“Then let’s go and get it.” Crowley kept his hand on Aziraphale’s wound until it was closed, and then he slumped into the backseat. “Okay. That’s it. That’s all I can do.” The keys to the Bentley appeared in Crowley’s hand and he held them out between the seats.

“You didn’t even need to do that, you idiot.” Aziraphale took the keys gladly and stabbed the key into the ignition. The car roared to life, petrol on E, and it spat out a black cloud of exhaust, as if acknowledging Crowley was not well. 

“Not going to have you bleed out on me, you moron!” Crowley’s eyes were closed, and his arm was thrown over his face. He patted the car’s upholstery awkwardly. “Be a good car for Aziraphale, okay?” 

The Bentley purred, and the wheel turned in Aziraphale’s hands as it drove back towards the bookshop. 

* * *

The bookshop was still standing. The fire brigade was nowhere to be found, there were no crowds of onlookers, and even the doorknobs had been polished. Aziraphale passed through the doors, and gasped softly.

His body was lying peacefully on the chintz sofa that Crowley usually sprawled out on, hands crossed on the stomach as if he were just napping. His clothes were in perfect order, including his coat and watch chain, down to the tartan collar and bow tie. He touched it on the chest, and his Celestial essence poured back into the vessel as easily as the day he’d been first given it. 

Aziraphale hurried out to the car, only to see that Crowley had somehow leveraged himself out of the back and was staring up at the bookshop, stunned. “Wasn’t…”

“Yes, but it isn’t.”

“Did you--”

“No, I didn’t, but I shan’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” He slipped Crowley’s arm around his neck, and his own arms around Crowley’s waist. “Let’s get you inside where I can have a look at you.”

Crowley was surprisingly silent as Aziraphale helped him into the shop. He was worried, in fact, about how critically Crowley might have been injured, but he didn’t know how best to ask  _ now, what exactly did they do to you, dear boy, and in detail so I know what to look for. _ Instead, he lowered Crowley onto the sofa, and started tugging at what was left of his clothes. “Let’s get these off you, shall we, and see what we’re dealing with?”

“Nothing that won’t heal, angel.” For the first time ever, it sounded to Aziraphale’s ears like a pet name, not an insult or a diminutive. 

“I need to see it anyway,” Aziraphale insisted, partly for his own satisfaction. He  _ needed _ to see and touch every part of Crowley, to fix what he could and to pamper the rest, simply to assure himself that Crowley was still there.

“Oh, all right, fine.” Crowley snapped his fingers and the tattered jacket and pants fell away in rags to the floor. 

Aziraphale’s eyes glowed brightly as he looked over Crowley’s form. There was not an inch of him, not even the soles of his feet, that had escaped. His chest was bloody scraps, flayed skin hanging off by tendon and muscle. The soles of his feet had been lashed, and then burnt with what looked like rocks or coals. His arms were also covered in whip marks, and when he looked closely, tiny crystals of salt still clung the shredded skin. “Roll over,” Aziraphale ordered.

Crowley did so without argument. His back was branded in no particular pattern, just burn marks and scorching all over. His calves were likewise marked, with bite marks interspersed along the ankle.

His thighs were burned and bloody, bruises blooming in vaguely hand-printed shapes. 

“I should have executed them all.” There was a high-pitched ringing in Aziraphale’s ears.

His hand rested on the demon’s bloody skin, and it burned. Salt crystals were clinging to his fingertips, working into the creases of his skin. Behind his closed eyelids, Aziraphale saw fractions of images, but the longer he touched, the more of Crowley’s blood seeped into him, and the more he saw.

Felt.

A Celestial silver knife cutting into Crowley’s skin, scalping him from sideburn to sideburn. Head shaved, with the same Celestial blade, to make sure no other tattoos lay hidden beneath his red mane. 

The agony of the scourge; Celestial tips and rust-colored barb wire soaked in salt, cutting through the fabric of Crowley’s clothing and his skin with equal alacrity. 

Crowley, spitting blood and teeth, laughing in the faces of his goat-legged tormentors as the bronze shackles drew him tight against the wall.

The screen wheeled in, and when Crowley refused to look, a silver rod was plunged directly into his eye. He heard the squelch of the organ as it was crushed under a hoofed foot. 

Tears flowing free like blood down Crowley’s face as the demon witnessed Aziraphale’s rampage on Purgatory. Of a slumped back, of weight behind held up on his wrists as his spirit was broken. 

A phallic-shaped object, which Aziraphale knew had been forged in Hell specifically for Crowley--he knew it, because Crowley knew it--shoved deep into Crowley’s body as he screamed for Aziraphale, not even aware of what was coming out of his throat. 

His tongue had been removed, but it had not mattered. Like his eye, it was growing back quickly, because demons healed him. Healed him, for more torment.

Endless flashes of the same, over and over. 

It took Crowley shouting his name to get his attention. “What?”

“I said, you’re hurting me.” 

Aziraphale jerked his hand away, watching the glow fade almost immediately. On Crowley’s shoulder, where he’d been gripping, his own handprint was freshly etched into Crowley’s skin. He covered it with his hand, and then blew softly across it. The hand print disappeared. “I’m so sorry.” 

“You have got to calm down, angel.” Crowley looked at Aziraphale over his shoulder. “It’s over. Not going to happen again. But you have got to calm down.” 

“I can’t.” Aziraphale stood up from the sofa and miracled a blanket without a second thought, and used it to drape Crowley’s mutilated body. “What they did to you--”

“Was nothing,” Crowley answered, pulling the blanket up as he rolled over to face the angel. And knowing that Aziraphale had seen, that made it a little bit tougher than his physical pains did. “There’s nothing Hell can do to me that Heaven hasn’t already done when they threw me out. You think any of this is going to hurt after that Fall? After burning in brimstone for who knows how long, after being  _ in Hell _ and out of Her grace? Do you really think there’s anything Hell can do to me after that?”

“They certainly tried,” Aziraphale said quietly, looking down at his hands, then at his feet--anywhere but at Crowley. 

“It was you, Aziraphale, that’s what they did to hurt me. Everything you did, they showed to me. They made me watch, made me see you in so much pain, so much torment, that you did… that.” He didn’t make any other references to Aziraphale’s actions. “This is what is hurting me now, and you have got to stop it.” 

“Beelzebub was right,” Aziraphale answered, standing off to the side. “I am your weakness, aren’t I?”

“No more so than I am yours,” was Crowley’s sensible answer. 

Aziraphale shot Crowley a withering look that balanced on the edge of tears. “What are we supposed to do, Crowley? I can’t… let you go through this again.”

“Beelzebub told you my secret, but was it really that much of a surprise? Sit down, have a drink, and please, for my sake, calm down.” Crowley winced as he pulled his feet up, leaving part of the couch for Aziraphale to sit on. “Please.”

Aziraphale sat gingerly on the sofa, and Crowley stretched his legs back out across the angel’s lap. “Crowley--”

“No, listen.” He squirmed a bit to get more comfortable on the sofa, then settled his feet a bit more securely. “This was all my fault. And if you say it’s not, I will actually bite you.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I wormed into your life, and connived to make you my friend.” Licking his lips, he went on. “I made you turn into a real angel. And I’ll never be able to live that down.” 

“A… real angel?” Aziraphale asked, obviously confused. “I don’t understand.”

He could tell it, and the anguish was welling in his chest. “I know, and that’s all right.” 

“No, I don’t understand. I  _ don’t. _ You said I was a real angel, and I always have been. I only… I only did what was necessary, to protect myself and avenge you. Well, I thought I was avenging you. To show Heaven and Hell that… that our lives were not games for them to end on a whim.”

“And that’s the point.” Crowley laid back against the arm of the sofa. “Nothing that Hell did to me was as hard as seeing what I turned you into. That was... “ He trailed off. Words lingered on the tip of his tongue, none of them able to be spoken.  _ Heartbreaking, _ because Crowley didn’t have a heart.  _ My breaking point, _ which he would never confess.  _ I wanted to be dead, really dead, so I didn’t have to see what I’ve done to you.  _

“That was the way it was supposed to be,” Aziraphale finished gently. “I am, after all, a Principality of Heaven, much as I may behave otherwise. And I suppose in the end, what we do and who we are comes down to what we let ourselves be. And I let myself… be an angel.”

“Yes, a bloody, rampaging angel who slaughtered anyone in his path. And now that’s on my head, because you did it for me.”

“I suppose I did,” Aziraphale agreed calmly, unruffled and unbothered. “There were many things that fueled me, and, yes, one of them was vengeance.” And another was love that he had not allowed himself to feel, and he realized that now was not the time to bring that up. “Rage, vengeance, and the loss of something precious,” was the way that he chose to phrase it. 

That Aziraphale saw their relationship, their friendship, their  _ connection _ as something precious just made it all the worse, but he stopped trying to vocalize anything because it wasn’t coming out right. Everything he said just made things worse. “My tattoo will grow back in a few days, and once it does, I can shift again and sleep this off. It’ll take a few years,” he warned. “But I’ll be back to my old self before you know it.” That would be enough time to let this situation settle, to let it lie in the past and return to an even keel.

“Don’t do that.” Aziraphale caught one of Crowley’s hands. “Don’t leave me alone for that long.” 

Crowley nodded. “All right. I’ll stay here. Might take awhile longer--”

“I’ll help heal you,” Aziraphale offered. “Every day if that’s what it takes.” 

_ IT WON’T TAKE THAT LONG, CROWLEY. _

Both demon and angel jumped, looking wildly at one another as they both heard Her voice echoing in their minds. 

_ SLEEP TONIGHT. IN THE MORNING YOU WILL FIND THAT YOU FEEL MUCH BETTER. THE DAY AFTER THAT, BETTER YET. _

“Sorry, but I don’t want Your help,” Crowley shouted to the empty room. 

_ TOO BAD, BECAUSE YOU ARE GOING TO GET IT. AZIRAPHALE, PRINCIPALITY OF HEAVEN AND GUARDIAN OF THE GATE, HAVE YOU CHILLED OUT YET? _

“Excuse me?” Hearing the Almighty use slang was a little… confusing. 

_ YOU TOOK CARE OF A PROBLEM FOR ME, AND I DID THE SAME FOR YOU, BUT YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN. _

Crowley muffled a snicker. “Did you… did God just put you in a time out?”

_ YES. AZIRAPHALE, YOU DID NOT FALL, YOU WERE NOT THROWN DOWN. YOU NEEDED TO CALM YOURSELF DOWN AND NOT DO ANY MORE DAMAGE TO HEAVEN. CROWLEY… SUCK IT UP AND FEEL BETTER, MY CHILD. _

The voice went silent, and Crowley exchanged looks with Aziraphale. “My child?” he repeated. “Did She just re-adopt me? Joint custody with Satan, every other Christmas in Hell?

Aziraphale shrugged, because he honestly did not know what to make of the conversation they’d just been a part of. Or perhaps a party to, would be more accurate. “Maybe you’ll get to come home after all, one day.” 

“I’m already home, angel. Anywhere else?” He shrugged. “Just a place to wait for the end of the world.” 

“Let’s not go through that again, shall we?” 

The End


End file.
